


Fool

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 02:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cormac and Colin had a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't properly British. Hey the war never happened and everybody lived, woo.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s over dinner, of course, because Cormac McLaggen is a trashcan disguised as a human being. Colin’s still fuming half an hour later, all by himself, sitting around the dinner table _he_ cleared even though it was dinner for _two_ and Cormac never, ever does dishes or any other kind of chore because apparently that’s what he has Colin for. Colin’s got his work spread out: an array of gorgeous, moving photographs of Colin’s always-favourite subject: stupid eat-all-the-leftover-pie-even-though-Colin-made-it Cormac.

It doesn’t help that Cormac’s got an infuriating smile in every one. He knows just how damn beautiful he is. How much Colin loves to take pictures of him. Colin’s trying to be objective—he needs to send his editor a new set of four by tomorrow—but it’s hard when each glowing photograph makes Colin’s stomach twist more than the last. Some are more casual shots—things snapped on dates because Colin brings at least one camera absolutely everywhere—and others are the staged, professional, perfectly enhanced portraits. They all have long shots of scenery—the current theme of the magazine—but they also all have Cormac’s dumb face somewhere in them. 

For the first time in a long while, (probably a couple of months, when they had their last fight) Colin wishes he shot other things. But all he’s got is Cormac’s perfect teeth and perfect hair and Adonis-like body chiseled from stone. With a frustrated growl, Colin pushes two to the far side of the table, narrowing it down to eight to choose from. As over this as he is, he needs to be discerning: he wants his published work to be his best. But he has half a mind to go stick a camera out the back window of their apartment and just take a long shot from there. 

Except that it’s raining right now, and that wouldn’t go over well. Colin looks over out the glass patio doors, just to double check—the space between their building and the next brick wall is entirely filled with grey water. It makes Colin frown for more than just his career—Cormac’s out in that. 

Colin tries not to care, of course. But after another half hour of uselessly puttering about the living room and kitchenette, his anger dampens somewhat—the rain’s only getting worse. He’s down to six photographs. Two of them have different angles of an old stone bridge, and Colin’s always had a fondness for those, but as they’re from the same park, he should only include one. That means one has to go. But one has Cormac leaning alluringly against the old siding, and the other has him lounging across the bottom. Both are exquisite; how can he choose?

About an hour later, he hears the first thunder clap, and it makes him jump, nearly spilling his hot chocolate down his chest. It’s a good thing he manages to steady his mug in time; he’s changed into pajamas, but the rain is chilling the apartment, and if he casts any more warming charms, the air will completely dry out. He puts his mug down and goes to throw on a bathrobe over top. 

Another hour and it’s officially later than Cormac’s ever been out without calling. He’s not good with the telephone, but he uses it for Colin’s sake; he knows Colin will worry. Colin’s _trying_ not to worry, because he’s mad, and he doesn’t want to forgive too easily, not again. Cormac can be such a stubborn, pigheaded, selfish brute, and he can’t get away with everything just because he’ll often give Colin an absolutely divine massage or a particularly toe-curling blowjob to get out of trouble. But that makes Colin think about making up. Cormac’s probably still mad, too—he was furious when he stormed out—but maybe when he comes back he’ll be mad enough to slam Colin against the wall and rip off the robe and striped oversized nightshirt that’s really one of Cormac’s hand-me-downs, and he’ll hiss that if Colin wants that pie so badly, he’ll have to suck it off Cormac’s tongue—

Colin moves the photograph of Cormac lying across the bridge into the reject pile. It’s too provocative. That side of Cormac is just for Colin, and only then when they’re not fighting. By now, the hot chocolate’s used up, and Colin goes to the kitchen to wash the mug, dragging his feet in the process to keep him with something to do. He needs to keep busy, because when he’s just sitting there staring at the photographs, his chest hurts and he’s lovesick all over again, like the first time he saw Cormac on a broom in Hogwarts, and the rain is pounding against the patio doors and all the windows and that means it’s somewhere pounding down on Cormac. 

Colin thinks of owling their friends, but the weather’s too treacherous to send their poor bird out, and none of Cormac’s friends, where he’d be likely to stay, have phones. Bloody purebloods. Colin paces the living room after the cup’s clean. 

Then he brings in a blanket from the bedroom and curls up on the sofa. The sky’s pitch black, but he can still hear the rain, and every once in a while, lightning flashes. It’s far past their bedtime, and Colin’s breath is coming more rapidly than it should. He feels like he’s having an asthma attack; Dennis used to have those before their family realized they were magic and took him to St. Mungo’s. Earlier, he’d tried to imagine telling Dennis and their parents and all his friends that he’d left his gorgeous, Quidditch-pro boyfriend, and how embarrassing that would be. Now he thinks it would just be sad; what would he do without Cormac? He’ll never meet someone else that fits into him so perfectly; they’re two unique puzzle pieces that’ve been attached so long their tiny bumps and grooves have molded into one another. It was just pie. Colin’ll make more. They don’t fight often, but when they do it’s over the _stupidest_ things...

It’s the middle of the night when he finally picks out the fifth photograph, leaving four for the editor. He knows he’ll have to reconsider his choice in the morning, because he’s exhausted from worry and dizzy with the need to sleep. He’s too small and weak to function without rest. But he needs his big teddy bear to snuggle into. He hasn’t slept alone since Hogwarts, and he doesn’t want to start, and besides, the fear is eating at his gut; the storm is vicious and wild and his poor Cormac is stuck out there somewhere in it, probably out on his stupid broom, just waiting to get struck by lightening. Colin cries too easily; everyone always tells him that (even though Cormac says he doesn’t mind because apparently Colin’s cute when he cries) and he’s tearing up right now. He stares at the four photographs on the table: four beautiful memories of the man who’s ring Colin wears on his finger like a badge of honour. Every one of those dates was perfect, and even the professional shoots were dates. Everything with Cormac is, even after all these years. 

He’s curled up on the couch in the blanket, half out of his mind with anxiety, when the door of their apartment finally opens. They’re long into the early hours of the morning, and it would probably be getting light again outside their window if the storm, still raging, wasn’t busy keeping everything dark. Colin’s a mess, with tremours and snot dribbling out of his nose and tears down his cheeks. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Cormac in his life: his best friend, his husband, his model. 

Cormac stands in the doorway like an angel that’s crawled out of hell. Colin twists around the back of the sofa to see him, slumping against the door handle, soaking wet from head to toe. His robes cling to his body like papier-mâché, and when he looks at Colin, his face twists. 

He shuts the door behind himself and digs into his pocket for his wand, then spells himself dry. He should’ve done it in their building lobby, but maybe he wanted to come home a mess to make Colin feel bad. Colin’s so relieved he can barely breathe. When he shouts, his voice is full of agony: “Where _were_ you?”

“Went to play some Quidditch,” Cormac grunts, disgruntled. He hangs his robe up behind the door and strolls over in his jeans and white button-up, still a little wet around his pecs and six-pack; apparently the spell wasn’t strong enough for tonight’s nightmare weather. Colin can see Cormac’s pebbled nipples through his shirt, a sight that always makes Colin squirm. Cormac’s blond curls, even dry, are still limp around his forehead. He stops right in front of the couch while Colin sleepily tries to sit up. He’s too drained to fight. Cormac shrugs lamely and says, “I... okay, I know I was gone a long time. But I didn’t want to come home.”

Colin’s heart is beating wildly against his chest. He was mad. So mad. But now he feels stupid for fighting over something so small, and the thought that Cormac would ever not want to come home to him _hurts_.

Cormac must see the pain on Colin’s face, because he quickly explains, “No, not... not because I was mad. Well, maybe at first. But then... you were so angry at me... I was mad too, I know; I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. But you were just so furious, and I... I didn’t want to come home when you didn’t want me home.”

Colin sniffs. He might cry again. He mumbles, “I always want you home.” Relief washes over Cormac’s face, like _he_ was the one left home alone for hours. “...And I’m only furious because I was so worried!”

Cormac cracks a small smile. With his perfect lips and handsome face and lovely cheekbones, even the tiniest grin is a work of art to Colin. Colin even loves the little wrinkles growing at the corners of Cormac’s eyes, only showing when he smiles. “...Forgive me?”

Colin nods and opens his arms, desperate to have them full again. 

And Cormac swoops into them like that angel Colin’s always wanted. He wraps his arms around Colin’s middle while Colin clings to his shoulders, and he picks Colin up, helping him to lie down across the sofa, the blanket all twisted between them. While Colin giggles and lets himself be readjusted, Cormac tugs the blanket out and shifts Colin into place. Cormac throws the blanket over his back and lets Colin smooth the ends out, adjusting it just right. Cormac’s heavy but good with his weight, making sure that Colin can breathe. Cormac’s body heat is that furnace Colin’s been longing to have all night, and feeling Cormac everywhere is just what he needed. 

Cormac kisses Colin’s cheek and murmurs, “...I’ve been bad. As punishment, I’m banishing myself to the sofa for the night.” Colin erupts in giggles; that is often how he punishes Cormac.

But of course, every time he does, he inevitably sneaks out in the middle of the night to sleep atop Cormac, because he just can’t sleep alone, and his anger never lasts. The smug smirks Cormac dons in the mornings at waking up to a human blanket is worth the good night’s rest. Tonight, Cormac plays blanket, and Colin is once again glad that their sofa is so very small. They _have_ to snuggle. 

Colin’s dead tired. He mumbles, “Love you, Cor,” while he has the strength. 

He hears, “Love you, Col,” just before he loses consciousness, swept off in relief and strong arms.


End file.
